


Sleigh Ride Together With You

by mudkipwrites



Series: Ineffable Holiday Heartwarmers [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1700's, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Ficlets, Gen, Holidays, Horses, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), London, M/M, Other, Romance, Series, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21651775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley take a snowy horse-drawn carriage ride on Christmas Eve. The first part of a series of short and sweet ficlets based on the 2019 Netflix/Hallmark Holiday Movie Bingo prompts!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Holiday Heartwarmers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009620
Kudos: 25





	Sleigh Ride Together With You

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet takes place in early-1700's London. The prompt was "Horse-Drawn Carriage Ride!"

* * *

The lanterns have been illuminated, and they are casting a golden-warm glow on the snow-dusted walkways before them. As always, the winding, cobblestone streets of London have been heartily decorated: holly and ivy, bright in the windowsills; pine and evergreen fragrant and woven; fairy-lights, twinkling over archways and doorposts.

Aziraphale snuggles into the warm ruff of his parka.

His round cheeks are pink with cold, but the blue of his eyes sparkles merrily. Christmas--and the season leading up to, and after--has always been his _favorite_ time of the year. Not only are people more willing, he has found, to reach out and lend a hand to those who are in need; but they also are more willing to open their hearts and minds to the idea that something bigger, some _one_ greater, might be loving and caring for them. 

He smiles to himself.

Tonight, Aziraphale has plans for mid-week worship at the local cathedral. While many would shun the idea of going out into the cold on a bitter winters’ night like this, Aziraphale himself embraces the opportunity. It allows him one of his most favorite winter activities: to _‘bundle up.’_ Much like staying inside wrapped up with blankets, ‘bundling’ in heavy, soft winter clothing allows Aziraphale to be as comfortable, plush and insulated as he pleases. Before going out into this frigid night, he had put on his heaviest, flannel-lined, camel-colored trousers; his very best, much-treasured, gift of mukluk boots; his tartan, knit sweater; his heavy, woolen parka; his wind-breaker; his _extra_ wind-breaker; and, _of course,_ his favorite, matching outward set (tartan hat, gloves, and bowtie). 

As Aziraphale walks down the chilly and charmingly-decorated street, a delightful sight catches his eye.

At the corner of First and Oxford, a large, horse-drawn carriage waits under the lamplight. A team of two horses--jet black, breath steaming in the lamplight--paw at the ground. Each velveteen coat is surrounded by straps of soft, clean leather harnessing, and blinders gentle their vision to the sides. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale breathes in admiration. He simply _loves_ horses. “What beauties!”

Losing track of his walk to the church, he crosses the road and draws towards the magnificent creatures. Truly, (like most angels), Aziraphale loves _all_ animals--even gnats, snails, and slugs. But he has a particular fondness for the giant, gentle ones: mammoth and manatee, whale shark and clydesdale. _“Hello.”_ he says fondly as he approaches, casting out a thread of Her grace. “Don’t you both just look _so fine_ this evening?” 

A muffled cough catches Aziraphale’s attention, and he whirls around in surprise. Standing at the back of the carriage, keeping an eye on the small crowd of children is none other than _Crowley._

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, feeling his face flush with pleasure and surprise. “Is that you, my dear boy?” The long, lanky figure is clad in a head-to-toe dress coat of marvelous black. His dark hat is pulled down, and his scarlet scarf is pulled tightly around his sharp face, but there’s no mistaking the way that those glasses glint in the lamplight. Nor the way that his slim posture slouches against the cold of the winter, or starts when he hears the voice of Aziraphale. 

“Angel.” Anthony J. Crowley replies. The children bobbing around, asking questions about horse and carriage, move out of his way. He crosses the space between them and is suddenly standing just before Aziraphale. “How are you this night?” His voice is the same as ever when Aziraphale encounters him: soft, and eager; attempting to be suave and casual, when the angel knows the demon much better. 

“Good _Lord,_ what are you _doing_ here! _?”_ Aziraphale asks in delight.

He throws his arms around Crowley, and, as usual, the demon freezes in place. He mumbles something under his breath Aziraphale cannot understand, and makes a small, patting gesture on the angel’s back. He pulls his old friend at an arms’ length to face him. “But, my goodness! Are they _yours?”_ he asks, nodding towards the horses. “You always said that you were not one for...what was it... ‘ _holiday spectacle’_?” 

Crowley coughs awkwardly. “I was in the area.” he replies. When Aziraphale opens his eyes wider, and waves in speechless emphasis at the beautiful carriage, Crowley protests, “What! S’not _that_ big of a deal!” 

Aziraphale laughs, and his breath plumes out into the night air. It makes the pink roses of cold in the demon's cheeks bloom more brightly than ever. “Not a big deal!” he exclaims. “Crowley dear, it’s _beautiful!”_ From behind his red scarf, Aziraphale thinks he can see a smile twitch at Crowley’s lips. He can certainly see his cheeks flush, even in the low light from the lanterns.“Have you gone into the vacation business after all?” 

“Nah.” Crowley shifts nervously, pulling at one of his leather gloves. “You...you want to see them up close?”

“Oh, _y_ _es!_ ” The angel answers excitedly. 

A few parents and guardians have come to usher away the small crowd of children. One of the women inquires Crowley about prices for rides, and Aziraphale drifts away along the carriage. He lets one glove-ensheathed hand run over the fine, painted wood of the side ( _black_ of course; not quite _Bentley_ material, but still, very good). Painted in spidery, golden handwriting is the moniker: _“Dashing Through The Snow: Horse-Drawn Carriage Rides by Anthony J. Crowley.”_

Amused, Aziraphale leans around the back of the carriage. “You’ve done the thing properly, haven’t you, dear?” 

Crowley flushes again. “Minor miracle,” he mutters, waving the woman away. “It started out as some poor bloke’s run-down cabbage trailer. Didn’t take much to convince him to part with it.” In spite of his modesty, Aziraphale can see how proud the man is of his little horse-and-carriage display. The paintwork glistens, the freshly-minted wheels shine, and he's decorated the seating with holly. “If only the former owner could see it now,” Aziraphale praises, patting the glossy flank of one of the horses. “Dashing, _indeed_.” 

Crowley makes a sound that is something like _ngk,_ and he spins the cane that he’s been leaning on. For a moment, he seems indecisive. Then, he asks of the angel: “Care for a ride?” 

For the second time this evening, Aziraphale is delightfully surprised. He knows that outbursts of affection tend to drive Crowley away, so he settles for leaning against the other man. “Oh, I’d _really_ enjoy that, my dear!” He watches the demon wriggle a bit underneath his long coat, then extend one eager, bent arm out to the angel.

Aziraphale takes it, and he walks alongside Crowley to the front of the carriage. 

“Careful on the steps,” the demon says, snapping his fingers. A set of steps appears before them, unfolding miraculously two-by-two in front of the elevated door. “It’s a bit icy this evening.” And he's really conjured the things perfectly: covered in a fine layer of gritty tread, the stairs are not slick and cast off the snow. “You cheeky thing!” Aziraphale says, giving Crowley’s arm a playful squeeze. “Is it _really_ necessary for you to use such a miracle for every little thing you cannot be bothered with?” 

For the first time this evening, Crowley openly grins. His long, pointed canines glitter in the dim lamplight. 

“You forget how notoriously _lazy_ I am.” he replies smoothly. Crowley helps Aziraphale walk up the stairs, careful to help the other man into his seat. Afterwards, he snaps, and the stairs fold up behind them. “Some would even say: work _smarter,_ not _harder.”_ The angel settles down primly upon a soft pillow, and Crowley clambers into the carriage behind him. 

_“Sloth._ ” Aziraphale scolds, chuckling mildly. He winks at Crowley to let him know that he's only joking, then burrows deep into the layers of parka. It's soft, and provides him with the heavenly down of insulation. “If you say so, Angel,” Crowley says smoothly. He plucks up the reins from where they've been resting, giving the straps of leather a tug. “Get along, now!” 

As if compelled by magic, the carriage glides slowly and quietly into the evening. 

Aziraphale relishes every magical sight. Snow is falling, gently, on both of their heads. All around them, the streets are frosted in white. Even grimy gutters have a quaint, charming look as they steam in the air and remind him of cocoa. “Comfortable?” Crowley asks, keeping his eyes on the road before them. “Snug as a bug in a rug!” Aziraphale replies merrily. He can’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. Every time that the nights seem to grow too long, too lonely-- _too cold--_ Crowley always seems to materialize out of nowhere.

It’s as if the dear boy can simply read his mind, appearing whenever he needs his presence most. 

The ride continues on, and Aziraphale admires the soft decorations of each of the shop windows as they pass by. The _clip-clop_ of hooves can be heard on the cobblestones, even with the soft muffle of snow. It is a nice sound, and it folds in soothingly with the sound of their rhythmic breathing, the jingle of harness-bells. 

The angel sighs, finding the moment perfectly _heavenly_. 

“Oh, _alright,_ Angel,” Crowley says suddenly. He speaks with the air of someone admitting the truth. “I'm not a usual, here after all. But I knew that you also had business to attend in the area, and...” he looks away, rubbing a forefinger anxiously against his gloved thumb, “And I thought that it might be...nice...if we just went about our errands together." 

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. The demon has always been slow to express is affections, and this one is practically a confession of _love._

"Oh?" The angel feels his chest tighten and flutter. He knows that his affection must be written plain upon his face, and that right now he is perfectly readable. Maybe, that is why Crowley is looking away from him right now; maybe, that is why the demon has his eyes trained on the road, watching snowfalls as if daring them not to come close.

Carefully, Aziraphale takes a moment to soothe his racing heart. Then, he extends one gloved hand and slowly rests it over Crowley’s long-fingered own. 

“... _Dear_ Crowley.” he says, doing his best to keep his voice measured. “How very _thoughtful_ of you, my friend. This is perfectly _magical.”_ The other man sighs, tension shaking from his shoulders. He sneaks a quick, sideways glance at Aziraphale--a glimmer of gold behind dark sunglasses--and gives him a shy, fleeting smile. 

“Yeah? You like it?”

“I _love_ it.” 

A warm, contented silence settles between them. Feeling deeply well-settled, Aziraphale sighs and snuggles into the plush seats of the horse-drawn carriage. And knowing that Crowley has created this whole scenario with _Aziraphale_ in his mind makes only every detail that much _softer_ and _sweeter._ His companion knows how he enjoys luxury--and so, the man has gone and added the decadence of _pillows_ into the chairs. He knows how Aziraphale, even with all of his extra padding, gets easily cold in the winter--and so, he's added the warmest of blankets, hot stones, and even a thermos of minted cocoa. He knows how of Aziraphale's ender heart, and has prepared their ride with radient, well-cared for stallions. And he knows that, beyond even his angelic duty of spreading of hope and good cheer, that Aziraphale's true, deepest pleasure is spending time alongside his dearest friend. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, squeezing their intertwined hands. “This is a perfectly _wonderful_ evening. You are simply too good to be true." 

The demon shrugs and leans back. He _might_ be smiling behind the shade of that tall hat and glasses; he _might_ just be blushing, behind that red scarf. Either way, he makes his voice as smooth and as confident as regular, and he replies casually: "Merry Christmas, my Angel. And cheers to another good year." 

* * *

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have time, please leave your comments and kudos. It really makes all the difference in the world to a writer and reader like me. Happy Holidays!


End file.
